The First Hour I Spent In Jail

The judge gave me five days for being arrogant and not doing what I was told.  At our previous meeting he'd made a point about something, something, something ... driving a car fueled with alcohol and some demand that I attend classes in alcohol management or something.  I forget.  I was pretty drunk when we met the first time.  In any case I had failed to do what I was told so, five days in the slammer for me.


Mine was the first case on the docket so I was alone in the holding tank while waiting for a bed.  Evidently some lucky guy had to be discharged before I could be let in.

Almost literally a tank, "holding" was 25 feet square with a drain in the center of the floor.  There was a toilet in the corner and the walls were painted with gray epoxy.  I got the impression that the place could be cleaned with a hose.  A single light was fixed poetically behind bars in the center of the ceiling.  The door was four feet wide but the standard height and made of 3/4" steel.  It made a distinctive sound when it closed; a sound that meant, "Final."

Dean Vangan came in shortly.  I had not seen Dean since the 8th grade when he sat in front of me in P.E. and stole my lunch money.  He announced his presence with a hearty, "Is this where we're spending the night?"  It was 9:00 AM.  I did not renew our acquaintanceship and, frankly, this is not Dean's story.  He fell asleep on the cold floor.

Within another hour there were over 20 men in Holding and with them came less of a sense of personal space.  When Angus MacFadden entered he made a bee-line for me, plopped down uncomfortably close and said, "Gimme a cigarette."

I gave him a cigarette.

He put the cigarette behind his ear and said, "Gimme a cigarette."  Not knowing the custom of incarceration I gave him another cigarette which he placed behind his other ear.  Then he said, "Gimme a cigarette."  He was out of ears and if this kept up I would be out of cigarettes so I said warily, "I already gave you two."

Evidently satisfied, Angus asked, "What do you do?"

"I'm a disk jockey at KZO..."

"I'm a roofer!" Angus blurted.  "They keep locking me up in these minimum security mental hospitals and I keep breakin' out.  I told that shrink I gotta be in a maximum security but they keep sendin' me to minimum security so I keep walkin' out.  I just walk out of those places and I keep tellin' 'em they gotta put me in maximum security but I keep walkin' out ...  I'm Angus MacFadden, I'm Black Irish, I gotta cousin who's on the radio do you know (a name I've forgotten)?"

"Yeah, I know him.  He's my newsman at KZO..."

"He's my cousin!  I'm a roofer but they keep puttin' me in minimum security mental hospitals ... I keep tellin' 'em they gotta put me in maximum security mental hospitals but I keep walkin' away."

As if things weren't surreal enough, the door opened and I saw one of those giant paper mache' heads like they have at Mardis Gras crouch down to get through the door.  I was sober so this was more than a little ... wait, it's not paper mache', it's a ... pup tent!  The guy, wearing a pup tent as a coat, his shoulders having filled the 4-foot doorway, stood up straight to reveal his full height of somewhere around 7'-4".

"I GOT THAT JUDGE BY THE BALLS AND I'M GONNA SQUEEZE!"  He bellered.  I'd never really heard anyone beller before and now that I had I didn't want to hear it again.  "I TOLD THAT JUDGE, JUDGE, I GOT YOU BY THE BALLS AND I'M GONNA SQUEEZE!"  Yep, that's the living definition of a beller.  "I told that judge this is the third time I been popped on a bad warrant and it ain't me!  It's some other guy who looks like me and I GOT YOU BY THE BALLS, JUDGE, AND I'M GONNA SQUEEZE!"

Okay, two things; what is it with crazy people repeating things all the time, and ... there's some other guy who looks like this guy?

Angus, not satisfied with the supernatural nature of my jail experience pipes in, "What kind of work you do?"

The question seemed to daze the giant for a moment, either he was not accustomed to being interrupted or uncomfortable with having to think for a response.  It was unclear which.

"I got me a sledge hammer!" He shouted, pleased with his standard answer which now came easily, "I can build it or I can tear it down, don't matter to me which!"  He chuckled at his own joke.

"I'm a roofer!"  Chimed Angus.

"I got no problem for roofers!" replied the giant.

"Turn around a second!"  Angus chirped.

A giant question mark flickered dimly over the giant's head.  "Wha?"

"Turn around, " Angus chided, "I wanna look at yer pooper!"

Over 20 men in a confined space and there was not a scuff, a shuffle, a chuckle, or a gasp.  Not a sound.

The question mark turned orange and radiated a bit more brightly as giant's head tipped forward, the better to hear, "Wha?"

"Turn around, I wanna look at your pooper!" demanded Angus.

Why do crazy people have to repeat things?  I'm sure he heard you the first time, Angus! But it was too late, time had already shifted into slow motion or perhaps it was just the natural movement of the mountain as he pulled off his pup tent, rolled it into a ball, and pushed the mass evenly to the floor.

"I'm here by mistake," he said in a low tone as a great single eyebrow lowered and the face of the mountain became slit-eyed, "I'm here by mistake," he said, almost sadly, as a single size-24 footfall caused the concrete floor to tremble and crack, "I'm here by mistake," loudly echoed the giant's voice, "but I will do the time to take you apart."

At that moment, as in all great fairy tales, the great steel door opened and a guard yelled, "Owl, we've got you a bed!"

When my eyes opened I was safe and sound in a jail cell, in another part of the building, with 15 other men.  I'm certain I had only blinked once.  I never heard a word about what happened after I left Holding.

Five days later I was walking home and I noticed that the air really does smell better on the outside.  Five months later I was comfortably seated in my studio, on the air, playing Led Zeppelin on the radio when the door opened with its familiar squeak and my newsman entered holding a piece of wire copy.  I had told him of meeting his cousin in jail and we had both wondered at the outcome of his brush with the giant.

"Read this," he said soberly.

All the blood rushed from my face and the wheels on my chair staggered as I read that an escaped mental patient, Angus MacFadden, was being held as a suspect in the bludgeoning murder of a sexagenarian couple in the Windermere neighborhood of Seattle.  He had been hired to do some roofing repairs on their home.  The article read that MacFadden had walked away from a minimum security mental hospital.